


Revenant

by ameliaspunkcomplex



Category: Supernatural
Genre: baby!Winchester, help me i had feeling at two am, sick sammy and cute protective dean, who had no idea what he is doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:58:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliaspunkcomplex/pseuds/ameliaspunkcomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey!” Dean says, but it comes out too scolding, so he adds; “Dad’ll be fine. He always is.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenant

“Dean.”  
“Hnng,” Dean mumbles into his pillow. He is vaguely aware of a pool of dribble collecting on the pillow he’s propped up, making his chin damp.  
“Dean!”  
There’s a small hand on his shoulder, shaking him, and Dean comes to sudden consciousness -  
 _watch out for Sammy  
_ \- sitting upright and shaking out his sleep-numb arm to grab the semi-automatic from under his pillow. He’s glancing around him, waiting for the wicked stench of sulphur or the tacky lamp to come crashing to the ground, heart racing because the shotgun packed with salt is on the table and _goddamn it, why didn’t he put it by the foot of the couch?_ when –

“Dean!”

There’s no faceless monster, nothing coming to get them, and when the adrenaline passes Dean can feel the weight of the cool metal in his hands ground him. They’re fine. _Sammy’s fine._

In fact, Sammy is sitting on the other end of the couch with a bemused expression, and he smirks.  
“’Shoulda seen your face.”  
“Shut up, goldilocks,” Dean grumbles. He rubs at his face, checks the safety on the gun and slides it back under the pillow. “What’re you doing out here? You’re supposed to stay in the other room.” The digital clock by the T.V. looks like it says one a.m., but it’s hard to read because the screen’s cracked slightly. _Something else in this crappy motel room that doesn’t work_ , Dean had noted earlier.

Sam looks like he’s about to say something when he bursts into a violent coughing fit, hacking feebly into a small, clenched fist.  
“-sleep,” he croaks.  
“What?”  
Sam scowls at Dean. “I said I couldn’t sleep.”

Dean shuffles aside to make more room on the couch, and Sam pulls a portion of the blanket over his legs while Dean picks the remote off of the armrest to switch the television off. MTV is still playing from when he fell asleep – he doesn’t really like any of the music, never really had the time or continuity to get into current bands, and all Dean really knows is the eight tapes in the Impala - but he likes the white noise when they’re alone, never really one for silence, can’t sleep without something buzzing in the background.  
“How come? Itchy blankets?” he jokes, but it’s hollow and too lighthearted.  
Sam fixes him with the sort of look a mom gives to her kid when he promises that the reason he isn't in bed is because he has a stomach ache – slightly irritated and tired and way too knowing for an eight year-old kid. Then again, the fact that they’re alone in a motel room and the elder of the two is packing major fire isn’t exactly normal for kids their age either.  
“I was worried about da-“  
“Hey!” Dean says, but it comes out too scolding, so he adds; “Dad’ll be fine. He always is.”  
“Then why hasn’t he called?”  
“He’s gone longer without calling, Sammy.”

Sam opens his mouth to protest but starts coughing again – it racks his tiny frame, and Dean notices that his fringe is sticking to his forehead, clammy and glistening. He reaches out to place a hand against Sam’s forehead although he mewls in protest – the skin there is burning hot.

“You’re sick,” Dean states. It sounds stupid, but his heart sinks. He’d hoped that it was just a sore throat yesterday, but when the wind smacks the shutters around Dean can catch Sam’s grey skin in the moonlight that creeps through the cracks, see that the kid’s practically carrying _suitcases_ under his eyes, and the little shiver at the brief draft doesn’t escape Dean.  
  
 The flu doesn’t flinch at salt or holy water, or pause at locked doors (John puts four make-shift locks on theirs – only locks two, so that if anybody tries to pick them they’ll be locking the other two either way). Dean can’t shoot a fever or call 911 (on speed-dial, just below John’s number) about the shivers. He’s suddenly feels like a _kid_.  
Maybe Sam knows it, because he smiles feebly with flushed cheeks and says, “I’m fine, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t look at him or reply for a second as he decides that taking the blankets off of himself and wrapping them around Sam is a good start. He remembers being told that you’re supposed to keep sick people warm, even if they have a fever. Or was it keep them cold? Maybe he should get Sam in a cold shower.

Dean curses under his breath, and wishes John had spent less time teaching him how to make salt rounds  and a little longer teaching him the fundamentals of house-keeping.

“You want a drink or somethin’?” he says quietly, pushing Sam’s hair away from his head. Sam shakes his head and pouts. “Some water?”  
“I’m a little hungry. Do we have any money left?”  
Dean raises an eyebrow at him, retorts, “We can’t order take-out at one in the morning, Sammy. If it isn’t weird enough that dad isn’t here.”

That’s one of the rules – don’t raise suspicion. But Dean gets up off the couch and pads over to the counter all the same, sorting through the coins and frowning as he tries to figure it out. Dean’s missed a good year of school, because John thinks he’s got a lead – on what, Dean doesn’t know, because while he’s allowed to spend four days alone in a motel room with a sick brother and no money, he’s not allowed to know the specifics of anything.  
  
It takes him a moment, but it’s not really worth the effort when he realises with a pang that they only have about $3.50 in change left, and it’s hardly enough to get food. Maybe if dad still isn’t back tomorrow, he’ll get Sam a burger or be responsible and just buy a load of bread, but after that he doesn’t know what to do; maybe steal a wallet, or some food right out of the store. It’s hardly the first time he’s had to, but Dean’s always worried he’ll get caught and leave Sam alone. That’s the one thing he won’t allow himself to do.

“I think I’ve got a granola bar in my bag,” he says to the couch, which hacks in reply. It sounds wet and chesty – Dean thinks there might be antibiotics or something in his duffel, but he can’t remember if those are the right things to give to sick people.

His bag’s through the other room under the wardrobe, just in case they have to pop out and a cleaner gives herself a heart-attack when she finds a rosary, a flask and about fifteen different stakes, knifes and guns. Dean crouches down and drags it out, fighting with the worn zipper as it catches on the fabric.  
“Come on! Fuck.”  
If John heard him say that, he’d probably get clipped around the ear. Enjoying the little things is something Dean learnt to do from a young age.  
  
 He can hear Sam still, coughing, and when he isn’t he’s taking short, rattling breaths. Dean pulls on the zipper even harder and it finally relents, although when he reaches in too quickly he catches his hand on a small blade and swears again under his breath.

There’s an energy bar at the bottom, and no antibiotics but a box of aspirin. He takes them both and goes back into the main room, chucking the battered food at Sam.  
“Fine dining,” Sam wheezes, and _god_ that kid is too sarcastic for his own good.  
“Don’t get a taste for it,” Dean calls back, but he smiles.

The water that comes out of the tap is lukewarm, and the glass he pulls from the cupboard is grimy, and as Dean’s popping two pills into his hand – just like the box says – Sam pokes his head over the couch.

“s’that?”  
“Medicine, Sammy,” he replies with faux-bravado and a confident grin. Sam doesn’t look convinced.

 _“I’ll be back tomorrow,” John says as he stands in the doorway. To anybody else, he looks relatively normal, but Dean knows there’s a machete hidden by his boot and the turn-up of his jeans, and there’s a sawed-off shotgun in his breast pocket. “This hunt shouldn’t take long.”_  
 _He ruffles Sammy’s hair, and fixes Dean with a stern gaze. “Lock all the doors and windows, keep the salt rounds close, and-“_  
 _“Look after Sammy, I know.” Dean says. He’s tired – they drove about five hours straight and John had him quizzing about everything from what to do when the 'pala runs out of gas to what kind of knife you need to take down a shifter; while Sammy lay crumpled up, unconscious in the backseat._  
 _John nods curtly, and pulls the door closed behind him._  
  
Dean’s jaw is tight at the memory, and he’s grinding his teeth again. It’s a terrible habit, and one that Sam never shuts up about when they sleep in the same room. He forces himself to relax as he presses the small, white capsules into Sam’s hand and gives him the glass of water.  
“Here,” he says. “It’ll help.”  
He doesn’t really know, but they’re both happy to pretend.  
Sam coughs again, just once, loud and sloppy, before he takes the aspirin.

For a few minutes, it’s silent. There’s only the faint buzz of a T.V. a few rooms down and the scratch of a branch against their window – the shadows looks way too much like a shtriga, and it’s made both of them slightly uneasy. The wind's died down, which is good because Dean's had to re-salt the largest window twice already.

Then there’s a rustle, which sets Dean on edge even though it’s just the blankets -  
they _are_ scratchy – and Sam’s nestling closer to him. Dean puts an arm around his little brother, who feels slightly smaller, if it was possible, and just _that_ bit more breakable. Maybe it’s because Dean feels useless that Sam feels as though he could snap in too tight an embrace. Good thing that Winchester’s aren’t the hugging type.  
Which is ironic as Sam sniffles and turns his face into Dean’s chest, and although he might break him, Dean tightens his grip around Sam’s shoulders, peeling back his hair again. Sam’s stupid girly fringe keeps sticking to his face, and Dean thinks that is _was_ keep them cool.  
  
“Dad will be home tomorrow,” Dean says, but it’s hollow.

 


End file.
